thecapitol | [OPEN]

Entry tags:

[OPEN]

Who| Sam Wilson + open!
What| Trying to figure out wtf is going on after just arriving
Where| Around the Training Center
When| After the arena
Warnings| none yet!

None of this was what Sam'd expected when he woke up on that cot, and was all but dragged out of the room by a group of guards. Not that he had all that much experience with kidnapping or being taken prisoner, but he was pretty sure they didn't normally include a kickass suite and free run of not only pretty much the whole building, but whatever city they were in. And he was definitely sure prisoners usually didn't get handed a map of the damn place and a credit card.

It didn't make him feel at all better about being grabbed, of course. If anything, their determination in treating him like he was supposed to be some kind of honored guest was making him twitchy, almost as twitchy as being told he'd been picked up off the streets to fight to the death like some kind of gladiator.

...it's also making him wary about just how good their security has to be, if they're actually letting prisoners have free range like that. Not enough not to test it, but definitely wary. So he waits a little bit after the guards leave him alone, exploring the room and giving them long enough to actually get gone, if they're really going. Then he's out, intent on seeing just how much leeway he has, and if he can figure out where he really is.

District 5 Suite

His first stop is the rest of the suite they'd dropped him off in, of course. He lingers in the kitchen - not really for food, though he is kind of hungry. At the moment, he's not willing to risk eating anything that might be available, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to check it out.

Which is why he's opening cabinets and peering in the fridge, eyeing the kitchen knives he'd found and wondering if they'd do anything if he grabbed one to keep on him.

Training Center

He has to admit, the place that gives the building its name isn't bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good, if he'd had a place like this back home, he'd probably have been there every day. It makes sense, he guesses, to give them access to a place like this, if they're supposed to be gearing up to participate in a battle to the death. But it also means their captors are either stupid or really, really good, and he doubts it's the first.

Rooftop

By the time he makes it up to the top of the roof, he's feeling a little overwhelmed. He'd gone up to clear his head a little, get some air, but he's not up there long before he's wondering if it wasn't a bad idea. Just looking out towards the edge makes him miss his wings; he sure as hell could use them right about now.

He stays anyway, sitting on one of the benches to look up at the sky, and keep an eye out for any fellow prisoners - or any of their captors - that might be up there as well.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

All right, that Sam definitely hadn't been expecting. He's still adjusting to the idea their prison is a whole city and the other people in his suite label their food and get pissy when someone steals it like it's the office fridge.

Still, his smile grows. Like hell he'd ever rain on someone's wedding parade.

"Hey, congratulations. You doing all the flowers yourself?"

"I'm trying to, more because I don't expect any Capitolites to make anything low key." They'd probably set up garish sparklers and over the top ridiculous ice sculptures and he just can't handle quite that much. It's bad enough it's going to be something the whole world seems to be invited too when he'd prefer it to be an exchanging of vows in front of friends, but if it means he and Jet are finally going to say they do, that's the part that really matters.

He smiles some, though belatedly, at the congratulations. "Thank you. It must seem rather strange to you though, focusing on this when we're trapped in a fascist state. You're new, aren't you?"

"Considering their fashion sense and what they do for entertainment, I'd have to agree." He hasn't been out in the city yet, but he's seen some of the stylists. And, you know, the whole kidnapping people to fight for the death on camera thing.

Sam gives a shrug. "I'm new, yeah, but it's not all that strange. Nothing wrong with finding some good to focus on in a whole pile of bad."

"No, I don't suppose there is." He smiles a bit, glancing at the flowers for a moment before his attention is back on the conversation. "That's a surprisingly even attitude for someone just thrust into this situation. Usually there's more panic or punching walls."

Which gives Albert the sneaking suspicion this man has seen some bad before now. There's something about him, maybe the way he carries himself, that has Albert wondering if he's a soldier. Maybe it's his still-pleasant demeanor even in the face of Panem.

"I'm Heinrich, by the way. Albert Heinrich." He offers his hand for a more proper greeting.

Sam grins a little, slightly self-deprecating. "Oh, I definitely got plenty of panicking in earlier, I'm sure it'll make another appearance soon." He shrugs. "Punching the walls is only going to get me nursing bruised knuckles."

He's a little itchy, not fighting to get out of here right away, but he knows better than to try to take on something as well organized as this with more Intel, a plan, and at least a little backup.

"Sam Wilson," he returns, giving the other man's hand a firm, friendly shake. "How long you been here?"

"You've got it together better than most of the rest of the tributes, then." He returns the handshake just as firmly, none of that overly tough machismo inherent in it, though he does have a strong grip.

"You're not going to like the answer to that question. I've been here for nine months, give or take. Some have been here over a year."

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or start being a little concerned."

He does have to co-exist with the rest of them, after all, at least for the moment. Not that he could ever blame any of them for it - this is hard enough for Sam to deal with, and he's got a pretty good handle on dealing.

"...yeah, I think you're right about that." He really doesn't like that answer, a year is a hell of a long time to be stuck in here.

Concerned is probably prudent but Albert doesn't say so. It's obvious enough.

"Yes, unfortunately there's not much we can do at the moment." Nothing but bide their time.

What he wants to tell Sam is that there is hope, and active rebellion and plans in the works, but he's only just met the man and he has no idea if he's trustworthy yet. Albert wants to hope that he is, but his pragmatism needs to guide his actions, not his idealism.

"Still, I'll help in whatever way I can if you have questions of how things work here. We may be made to fight each other in there, but with a few exceptions, I believe there's no reason not to help each other out here."

"So I've heard."

He's been given advice, a few times, on the current situation, and on keeping his head down. If he hadn't already planned on laying low while he got a handle on things, that would have made his decision for him.

"Some people've told me, a little, about how the arenas work-" Namely the coming back from the dead part, which he's still struggling with. "-but how long is it usually, between them?"

"It varies, but usually roughly a month. Sometimes there will be smaller, one day event arenas between them with a smaller pool of tributes. No less deadly, but at least they lack the ongoing survival aspects of the main ones. No worrying about finding food or water." From the sound of it, Albert prefers those to the drawn out ones. He does, but mostly because the arenas themselves are more likely to kill you than to run you into other tributes. The less he has to kill personally, the better.

A month. On the one hand, it gives him a month to try to figure out how the hell he can get out of here. On the other hand - from everything he's heard, he doubts a month is going to be long enough for that. Either time to prepare, or time to spend thinking about it a hell of a lot, he hasn't figured out which way he'll end up going yet.

"How do they decide who ends up in those smaller arenas?"

"Lottery, popular vote, maybe even volunteers sometimes if there's a prize, but usually it's all up to the gamemakers. The people who scored you when you first arrived." He motions to the currently empty viewing booth.

"It's all very demeaning," he adds sourly. "But impressing them generally means impressing sponsors."

He can't help but make a face at that, remembering when he'd been unceremoniously shoved in here and told to impress them. Sam'd decided back then that playing along was probably his best bet, and that hasn't changed yet, but it doesn't make him any happier.

"The people who can send us stuff in the arena, right. I'm guessing they're happy as long as we're putting on a good show?"

"Generally speaking, yes. We're also given money for kills we make in the arena to encourage this behavior." Not that he's ever sought that out. The only kills he'd ever made were accidental or intentional for reason of being emotionally or mentally compromised thanks to events or arena effects.

He pauses for a moment, eyes going to the flowers he'd been tending to only a short while ago and suddenly seeing them not as a wedding arrangement but as a funeral display. There's Jet, laid out on the table with the flowers and candle covering the hole in his chest left by Albert's blade, the scarring still prevalent around the tall blond's eyes. He'd done that, and they'd paid him for it, loaded his little credit card with blood money. It makes him feel ill and he leans on the table for a moment as the vision fades.

Jet's alive. Whole. Devoid of any lasting effect besides the trauma. Funny how he can think that, besides the trauma, as if what they go through every arena can just be shoved aside. But it has to be. What else can they do about it now?

Albert realizes he's been silent for some time and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I must have zoned out for a moment."

Sam blanches at that. It shouldn't surprise him, after everything else he's heard about the Capitol and the arena. And it doesn't, not really, but that doesn't make the thought any less distasteful.

His lack of immediate response doesn't seem to matter much, though, and when he realizes that Albert's zoned out a little on him, he doesn't bother giving one. Instead, he looks over the flowers, watching Albert out of the corner of his eye, just in case this is going to get worse than a little zoning.

When Albert apologizes, Sam quirks a small smile, shaking his head. "It happens, man, nothing to apologize for." He's quiet for a moment, then ventures, "I'm guessing just because you know someone might come back, doesn't make it a lot easier to watch them go."

Sam's comment earns a startled look from Albert, which quickly settles into a wane smile, barely reaching his eyes and where it does it carries a self-deprecating quality. "You're perceptive."

He lets out a soft breath, looking to the flowers again. They're just flowers. He starts to take the arrangement apart carefully. "No, it's not. Not the first time, or any time after. Especially not when it's you that sends them off."

He's not sure why he added that last part, why it's so easy to let it slip out to the brand new Tribute. True the entirety of Panem saw it, this is televised after all, but he hasn't talked about it since it happened. Not even with Jet. So then why Sam?

The man across from him isn't fresh-faced as the other newly reaped, he's got the same baring about him as some of those he'd known in the GSG-9, as Jet when Albert had seen him for the first time after so long, as Steve. He's a soldier, then, Albert hazards an internal guess. Not just having fought, but actually having served. It's an important distinction, that, serving a cause versus mere fighting, but there's something else about Sam Albert can't put his finger on. Something at ease even despite the situation they find themselves in.

It's as if he's never met anyone well adjusted before.

"You sound as if you have experience with loss."

Sam smiles back, tinged with a hint of self-deprecation of his own, as he gives a half shrug of agreement. He's not going to deny it, although most of the times it feels like it isn't so much perception as just having gone through similar things.

He leans against the table as he watches Albert taking the flowers apart, letting out a breath of his own at that last bit. Yeah, he knows a little bit about what that feels like. Not in a battle for the death, sure, but still. "You might know that you did what you had to, that there wasn't anything you could've done different, but that's logic. Guilt, regret, all that fun stuff, they don't always play nice with logic."

Then he quirks a small smile, nodding. "I was Pararescue, back home. I've seen my share of people go." It'd be easy enough, to leave it at that, but Sam's used to sharing this kind of thing with strangers. Well, with strangers who he's starting to have a feel for, anyway, who he has this in common with. "My wingman, during my last tour."

He nods, clearly comprehending. "I'm sorry to hear that, my condolences. It's a terrible thing to have to watch."

Albert knows first hand, and not from the Arena. He was left standing by while Jet flew off, while Joe defeated one of the greatest evils known to humankind. Left on Earth to simply watch while his close friend and the man he loves fell through the atmosphere like so much stardust.

Twice.

Frankly it's a miracle that Jet was even alive to be brought here to Panum, but such were their lives as cyborgs. Now, here, they're flesh and blood and even though they continually are revived, he still feels that they're even more fragile than before.

"Pararescue, though. For the United States Air Force? I was German special ops myself, though more a museum piece than any field work. I can't say I missed the field." He didn't, not really. He would take up the mantle of cyborg soldier readily enough when Gilmore called them - those times when they were the only ones who could do the job - but in general he was more content to stay out of action. He'd fought and killed too much already.

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of the apology, giving a little smile. "Yeah, it is." It's obvious that Albert knows exactly how that feels, and Sam doesn't think he really has to say anything else there.

Sometimes it's nice, just to sit in silence, and know that someone gets it. It's not like dwelling on what'd happened, although of course, Sam's done his fair share of that, it's just - understanding, he guesses.

His eyebrows raise a little when he hears special ops. "US Air Force, yeah, though I did a little bit of special ops myself. What kind of museum piece are we talking about?" Sam hears 'special ops' and 'museum piece' and his mind can't help but go to something like Captain America or the EXO-7.

"The kind that's very old, antique by most standards." He smiles a little, still hurting from his thoughts before but trying to move past it. "I was with GSG-9."

He can't say the full name, it's in German and so the chip would translate it oddly, but it should be enough that Sam would know the group to be similar to US SWAT in terms of training and very active fighting terrorism domestically. Though Albert was part of the outfit more because of the 'special weapons and tactics' field of work, given he'd been a walking cybernetic arsenal of Cold War tech at the time, but that's not exactly something you tell someone on your first meeting.

"Not so upstanding as pararescue, either. I was mostly behind a desk as staff captain, teaching newer operatives and shuffling papers the majors and higher didn't want to deal with." There's a shrug that accompanies that. He never minded not seeing action with the German military. If anything, it left him open to come when Gilmore called for more pressing global missions in secret.

"What sort of special ops? If you can tell me. I understand if not." Though withholding that could be just as telling.

That's not doing anything to get rid of the association with Captain America. Well, the antique comment, anyway, though maybe even the second part, considering Steve's former involvement with SHIELD.

"Equipment testing, mostly. They always some poor guy to try out the experimental stuff." Still, he's grinning a little as he says it, and it's obvious he's none too upset about being that guy.

It's technically true, if a little vague, but the details of the EXO-7 aren't something he just gives away. ...well. To people who aren't Steve or Natasha, but that'd been extenuating circumstances.

Maybe it shouldn't. Albert has quite a bit in common with Steve, right down to being frozen for decades, but as there's no reason to share that, he's not going to. "You sound like you enjoyed your work."

Someone else and Albert might have been uneasy with that fact, but Sam doesn't seem like the type of person to enjoy weapons testing for the sake of the pain they can inflict. Unless he's a sociopath; it's not like Albert knows for certain. He'd prefer to act on the assumption that the other man is as he appears, though.

"Yeah, I did," Sam agrees, shrugging slightly. There was a lot of it that wasn't enjoyable, and the way things'd ended - but he's already gone into that as much as he wants to. "We did a lot of good work."

Plus, you know, he had wings. Kind of hard not to enjoy flying. While it lasted, anyway.

"But that was a few years ago. I'm mostly retired, now."

"Good for you. Men in our line of work often don't get that luxury." Not while still being able-bodied, at any rate. He by no means intends to disparage those who don't make it, least of all Sam's partner, but if Sam is also a veteran, then he'll know that by rote. There's a certain unspoken language there that Albert, despite never having the benefit of a veteran's office or the like, has discovered for himself exists between soldiers.

"It's difficult to keep busy, though, isn't it?"

He tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement of that, giving a humor-less smile. No, they didn't. In his experience, it made some of the ones who did feel even more guilty - himself included, at one point. But he's mostly past that now.

"It was, yeah," he replies. "But I started working at the VA, and that kept me plenty busy."

And then Captain America had chased him down on a morning run, and he'd found himself way more than busy.

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and scene~